a good response to anything

just look who ever you're talking to right in the eye and wag your pointer finger. works best when accompanied with a screwed up face that just screams 'you're a piece of shit.'

who even cares right?

i went out yesterday morning to get some breakfast. and on the corner of rose de lima and notre dame there was a group of dirty, greasy looking old homeless men causing a ruckus, really ripping it up. i was certain walking passed that they'd be sharing a few 40oz's of labatt blue dry, which is the regular fuel these poor old bottom feeders ingest for the fire they were burning.

but man, they weren't drinking. they were all huddled around a white haired guy with thick looking skin, the kind repeatedly burned by wind and sun. he was getting a shave from one of his buddies. he was laughing and giggling, he couldn't sit still. so the guy shaving him had to keep going over and over the mans merry cheeks.

the four or five bums around him were all smiling, standing around in their stained old winter coats. even the guy with the tear drop tattoo and the torn do rag who always looks like he's thinking about killing every one walking by. the fucker was smiling like there wasn't a care in the world.

i looked away, looked at other people going by. all these fuckers in nice sweaters and warm, stylish jackets had their faces all screwed up. i guess they don't see how good it is to be awake and alive and going to restaurants to pay some one to feed you like a member of the royal class. instead they take their time to look down the length of their noses on men who shave on a park bench with out the help of running water.

the photographers

"That’s what it's supposed to do," he says.

"It's supposed to make me want to give up?" she says.

"Yep," he says

"But why? That doesn't make sense," she says.

"Sure it does. It keeps you pacified," he says, "you don't want to do anything with yourself. And neither do I"

"I want to do things. I want to go places and see things and take wonderful photographs and feel things," she says, "you want to do things. You write."

"Ok, we want to do things, but we don’t," he says.

"You're right," she says, "we just sit around and do the same things days after day after day. It's sickening."

"I want to write, and you want to take photos, and we both want to see and do and feel things, but by the time five o'clock rolls around we're beat. The couch calls out and usually gets an answer," he says.

"I never thought it was going to turn out this way. Why didn't our parents warn us?" she says.

"So we could stay children for as long as possible," he says, "hey, look at these two assholes."

Walking along the train tracks are two guys with big flashy cameras. One has curly brown hair like a poodle. Its frizziness is noticeable from the distance. The other is just a normal guy. You see him all the time.

"How come they're assholes?" she says.

"I'm a fucking fashion shoot," he says.

"I don't think it's a fashion shoot," she says.

"Yeah, you're probably right. I thought I saw the one guy taking his shirt off and posing out. But I think I was wrong," he says.

"I didn't see that," she says.

"It was before I pointed them out," he says.

"If you saw that how come you didn't tell me," she says.

"I wanted to keep it all to myself. I'm selfish like that," he says.

"You admitted it," she says.

She points her pointer finger in his face and laughs.

He tires to bite her finger off.

They both laugh.

One of the photographers points his big flashy camera in the direction of the man and woman. The man shoots him the finger.

"Those fuckers are taking our picture," he says.

"They should've asked," she says," I always ask."

"It's the right thing to do," he says.

The photographer with the poodle hair doesn't like that the man is giving him the finger. He affects the 'what the fuck buddy' posture of arms at either side, palms out slightly raised away from the body.

"What's that guy's problem," she says.

"I don't think he likes it that I am giving him the finger," he says.

"Oh, I didn't notice. Yeah, he probably doesn't like that…why are you doing that?" she says.

"I don't like that he's taking our photo," he says.

"He's probably some ass-wipe art student and is loving this," she says.

"Probably. I'm going to be in some third rate Concordia art show with the caption 'still life with angst and alcohol' underneath," he says.

The man and woman laugh. Clink their bottles together and smile.

This is love.

so what can you do but have another drink

the thing about not being able to sleep is that you're so close to all the blackness but the void refuses to take you in.

rejection from a necessary component of keeping it together.

sometimes smiles come easy

best overheard conversation of the night

girl: (unintelligible muttering)

other girl: yeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhh!

guy: (cough)

girl: we need to get some beer…yeah…more beer (franticly points towards a depanneur owned by a couple who always give me dirty looks when i come in to buy beer)

other girl: (excited murmurings)

guy: (cough)

girl: and we need to get some fuckin' mdma from the laundromat

guy: (coughs, fakely, really really loud in an attempt to mask the mention of mdma)

me: (to myself) i wonder what laundromat they use?

for when you find all of it so fucking useless.

when i think about being a little baby in the arms of the friends and families of my parents i think about them looking down at this little ball of squealing flesh and shit and tears and they probably had all these lofty hopes for what i would grow into, like a safe and comfortable factory worker or maybe an accountant? but i doubt that as their eyes welled up with joyous tears they ever imagined i'd be drinking expired bottles of beer i found in some boxes on the side of a semi deserted street on a monday afternoon.